


Bona Drag Was Still On

by AtomicTortilla (DouseMouse), shrink



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8058523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DouseMouse/pseuds/AtomicTortilla, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrink/pseuds/shrink
Summary: On a quiet morning in 1991 Johnny opens his front door to find Morrissey drugged on his doorstep. Neither of them thought this would be how their first meeting post-Smiths come about. As the drugs wear off, Morrissey senses that all is not right in the life that Johnny has built without him.





	

 

**x.**

Morrissey is sitting by the bar when a promoter claps him on the back. He turns to smile, but only manages to contort his lips into a tight line. He is tired, and this after-party is keeping him from a plush hotel bed. Besides, he can scarcely remember anyone's name.  
  
“Mozzer,” the one with the trendy haircut calls, raising his glass, “you nailed ‘Last Night on Maudlin Street!’” Another man nods in agreement, and Morrissey weakly mimics the gesture with his own glass.  
  
Being on stage is one thing, but everything else that goes with touring is exhausting.  
  
“A drink from a fan,” the waitress says, lowering a drink onto the table in front of him. She is already heading to her next table before Morrissey can respond.   
  
“Being famous has its perks,” Mark Nevin winks at him. Morrissey sighs and tips the glass back, counting on the alcohol to make any of the people around him interesting. He used to be better at slipping away from after-parties. Or maybe Johnny was just better at making his excuses sound believable.  
  
“The girls are supposed to be better looking in California,” Trendy Haircut says, motioning to the empty seat on the other side of the singer, “wait until the next leg of the tour and we’ll fill the bars with blonde groupies.”  
  
Morrissey wonders how these people came to find themselves in his entourage.  
  
“I surely hope not,” he says and everyone laughs on cue. He looks at his watch and decides another ten minutes will make it an acceptable time to have stayed out.  
  
Mark starts telling his favorite stoned roadie story which Morrissey has heard at least five times by now. Everyone around the table is mysteriously enthralled. But Morrissey is just glad none of them are looking at him. He stares blankly at the two empty glasses in front of him and tries to focus. The rims are bleeding together into a dizzy number eight.  
  
“Right Mozzer?” Mark calls from across the table. But his voice is gargled and strange. Everyone turns to look at him expectantly, and he just nods. They all laugh too loud, and the table now joins the glasses in spinning. He wants to ask for water, but the thought is trapped in his mind.  
  
He pushes away from the table and focuses on the bathroom door in the back of the club. Some cool water from the sink could surely bring him back to sobriety. He concentrates on weaving between the people dancing to the gaudy club music.  
When he staggers too far to the right, his shoulder catches the side of a chair and he almost trips.  Someone laughs but he continues on, afraid he if stopped he wouldn’t be able to start again. He pushes open the bathroom door and tries to look in the mirror but leans forward over the cold sink instead. Some small part of him knows that he should be concerned, but all of his thoughts are subdued, like they’re not a part of him. Like they’re somewhere at the bottom of a swimming pool.  
  
He is suddenly very warm and stares at his unmoving arms. He wants to turn on the faucet.  
  
“Looks like you’ve had one too many.” Someone claps him on the back.  
  
Morrissey opens his eyes, distantly realizing he can’t remember shutting them.  
  
“Let me give you a hand getting a cab,” the voice says, wrapping a sturdy arm around Morrissey’s waist.  
  
He nods as his head lulls to the side. Is this someone from the table? Maybe a roadie, or Mark?

The two of them are outside now walking down the soggy concrete. Morrissey tries to concentrate on where his feet are going, but he is being carried more than anything.  
  
“In here,” the person gripping him calls out to someone else. They are in a car park, walking away from the florescent lights of the bar.  
  
“Dorrissey!” a new voice squeals. Morrissey’s companion drops him, and he staggers onto his knees where the world is solid. Six legs float into his field of vision.  
  
“He doesn’t look so arrogant now,” a voice says from above him. He is pulling himself along the concrete away from noise, away from the men talking. Someone grabs his hair and throws him back to where they want him.   
  
“Look at me!” someone grabs him and cracks him in the eye. He crumples onto the cement, glad nothing hurts.

“Get him up,” someone says, sounding bored.

He tries to concentrate on breathing because that is easy to do.  
  
“You gave him too much.”  
  
He wishes everyone would stop moving him. He tries to remember where he is again, but it is too confusing. All he can think about is how embarrassing it would be to throw up in front of these men -- whoever they are. The men are talking to one another again and he puts his cheek to the cool surface of the concrete.

When he wakes up someone is shoving him into the back seat of a car. It must finally be the cab.

* * *

Morrissey opens his eyes to the light of the early morning. He lifts his head up only to let it land with a distinct thud against a doorframe. He hears more than feels the groan that comes from his chest. From this angle he can just see the tops of the trees at the edge of the yard. He scrapes the fuzziness of his tongue off on his front teeth as his eyelids begin to droop.

The door opens, and he falls into the entryway of the house, his head caught by a pair of trainers slightly more comfortable than the ground.

“What the hell?” The voice is too familiar. He looks up into brown eyes and regrets it; the small bare-bulb hanging from the entryway already burning a hole in his retinas.

“Johnny,” He says slowly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He can tell he’s talking slower than usual, tongue catching where it wouldn’t normally, and he has to take a breath halfway through. He turns his face into the softness of Johnny’s shoelaces and closes his eyes.

“Jesus,” Johnny says just loud enough for him to hear. Fingers worm under his armpits followed by the clumsy jostling of Johnny pulling him into his house. The sound of his heels dragging against the hardwood floor and small drop onto the sofa wakes him up a bit. He watches as Johnny picks up a phone receiver and wonders when he got so far away.

“No police,” He tries to say, though the words he hears are different, a jumbled mess that isn’t any language he knows. “No hospitals,” he tries again, and from the look on Johnny’s face Morrissey is sure he understands.

“You _need_ medical attention,” Johnny says, running a hand through his hair. “Your face---“ he makes general wave around his own face. Morrissey lifts a shoulder. It isn’t as if he can stop Johnny from doing anything he wants; now or any other time. Johnny holds up a finger, placing the receiver down before disappearing. Morrissey doesn’t move his eyes from where Johnny had been standing until he returns with a damp flannel that is surprisingly warm when pressed against his face.

“I don’t need you to,” Morrissey begins, his cheeks hot and wet. He lets his eyes slide shut as Johnny presses a little harder while scrubbing his forehead.

“Just so tired,” he says through numb lips. “You can call me a cab.”

“To go where?” Johnny asks, his tone sharp.

Morrissey opens his mouth to respond but there is a knock on the door. Johnny spins dramatically, as if someone would be standing there pointing a finger at the two of them together.

“I’ll be right back,” Johnny says. Morrissey strains to make out Johnny’s quiet voice in the doorway but gives up. He presses his cheek against the sofa. His eyes slit open when Johnny storms back into the room.

“That was no one,” Johnny says quickly, looking at the pillow Morrissey is laying against. Morrissey has a distant thought to say something like ‘peculiar’ in the tone that used to always get Johnny stammering and blushing and sometimes telling him whatever it is he is hiding.

Johnny’s fingers are wrapping around his shoulders again, and he is being pulled up. The world tilts around him; he turns his head to the side and finally throws up, narrowly missing Johnny’s feet.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Johnny is saying. “Let’s just get you to the bed and you can lie down again.” Morrissey is being lifted, Johnny’s arm is around his waist and he swings Morrissey’s arm over his shoulder. The singer sags into Johnny’s side and watches as their feet more or less progress together.

Some of the pressure and fog in his head seems to be getting pulled out as they walk up the stairs, and Morrissey begins noticing the bare walls, the un-vacuumed floors, and the dust on the moldings. He squeezes his fingers into Johnny’s shoulder, and picks his feet up a little higher to clear each step. His breath, he could hear more than feel, is coming out quicker, louder.

They reach the bedroom and Johnny all but drops him on the bed to begin pulling the curtains closed.

“They can be open,” Morrissey says, clenching his fingers into the bedspread as he pushes himself up. But Johnny ignores him, crossing the room to pull the blinds down hard.

“It gets really bright in here. Bad for your head.” He is tripping over his words. Morrissey looks around the room and finally feels panic clawing up his ribs. He tries to swallow it down and nearly gags again. Johnny turns and sits on the edge of the bed. Morrissey is practically panting. It is the first time he’s seen Johnny since they recorded ‘I Keep Mine Hidden.’ The thought comes to him as he visually traces the outline of Johnny’s fingers splayed on the duvet.

“Moz,” Johnny says slowly. Morrissey looks at him straight-on for the first time. Johnny’s hair is too long and horrible. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

He nods, his body lowering back onto the bed. _Johnny won’t be here when I wake up_ , he thinks frantically, but his eyes are already shut, and the weight of a blanket covering him is the last thing he feels.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Pink Rabbits" by the National. All questions will be answered soon!


End file.
